House's Downfall
by Lynandreth
Summary: This is my take on what will happen for season four. I'm starting with what my take of episode two will be and I'll try to update each week after I see what the new episode actually has happen in it. Read and Rate!
1. House, episode 2, Part 1

These are my thoughts on what will happen this season in House.

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters, places, etc., unless mentioned up here as an original character.

House: What the Hell makes you think you're competent enough to write about me?

Me: Well, I do have all three seasons, and--

House: Ooo! Whoo-pee! You have all three seasons! And I suppose you've watched the commentaries, and bloopers, and know that I actually have a British accent?

Me: … Bloody asshole…

House: Now there's something I'd find interesting to diagnose.

Me: Yeah, I know. It was the first symptom of the kid in the second episode of season three.

House: … I'll try you. Take a number.

Me::Groans::

I'm starting with my take on episode 2. And hopefully House'll leave my story alone.

* * *

House's alarm clock rang, startling him out of his reverie. Sleep seemed to be the only place he could get any peace anymore. Not that he'd admit it, of course. It wasn't as if he missed his former colleagues. No. He didn't need them. He'd proven that days ago, with his last case.

He rolled over and finally slammed his fist down on the alarm clock, silencing it. Of course, if he was just fine on his own, Cuddy wouldn't be forcing him to pick a new team from the sixty-odd resumes he had waiting on his desk from summertime. And Wilson wouldn't have stolen his baby. That guitar was worth a damn lot of money and the idea that Wilson would disregard that simply to try to get his way on something annoyed House to no end. Though, he'd never just say he was pissed off. No, far better to get even then to get mad.

Stretching, still not ready to get out of bed and deal with the inevitable pain his leg would bring him, he wondered what kind of torture-- er, trials he could put his new charges through. After all, he promised them the longest, hardest job interview of their lives and he intended to make good with that threat-- er, promise. Gregory House would not make the same mistake again. He fixed it with that kid who'd had the same disease as the elderly lady he couldn't save, he'd fix it this time and hire a team who wouldn't suddenly grow spines and leave him.

Finally, he could find no more reasons to dawdle and got out of bed, reaching for his cane at the same time. He caned down the hallway and got a towel out his linen closet, came back to his room and grabbed a Rolling Stones T-shirt, a dark blue blazer, and a pair of jeans with worn knees, and went to the bathroom for a shower.

As the water rolled down his face and splashed over his back and shoulders, and idea came to him. He'd called all sixty-odd potential applicants into a room at the hospital to describe what getting a job under him might entail. (House: Ooo, under me, how naughty! Me: House… ::Holds up brand frying pan. House::Scoots away as fast as his cane will let him::)

Anyway, the idea was so simple. All the potential job hogs would wear a number. House could get three twenty-sided die, each a different color, and number the people from one to twenty in a designated color. Then, he'd pit number one from all three groups against one another to see who could do the best job at whatever he asked. Whether that be bringing him the result of an MRI, performing a CT scan, or just making his morning coffee. Then, there would be the more fun things to observe them trying. Like watching them sweat under Cuddy's glare, sensual as it was.

House had to say, he enjoyed the game of sexual tension he and Cuddy played. As much as he joked about 'getting a piece of that ass,' he was relieved it never went beyond a game. Relationships meant work. They meant sacrifice. They meant commitment. They meant far too many things that House had no patience for or just plain did not want in his life. Besides, relationships, any relationship, meant that eventually, the other person would leave. And he didn't want to deal with that again.

After all, replacing employees was hard enough. Replacing a sex partner? Damn near impossible.

* * *

"House!" Cuddy called as soon as she saw him get off the elevator. "There's case for you."

"Not interested. Remember, you made me go through those resumes, so now I have to narrow down the crops from sixty-odd to three. Can't expect me to do that and solve a case, can you?"

"I can and I do. Now here, take a look at this." She handed him the file and pointed. "Fourteen year old girl, complaining of knuckle pains and a sprained ankle that doesn't seem to want to heal."

"And this is a mystery how? She's a teenager. Probably rubbing up with some guy on the weekend and she chafed her knuckles on something cuz that's not what she was paying attention to."

"And the ankle?"

"She play any sports?"

"It says tennis, but come on. Do you really think she'd play on a sore ankle?"

House pretended to honestly give this thought. Then, "Um, yeah! She's a tenager. Even if her parents said she shouldn't play and should let herself heal, you think she's gonna listen? She's fourteen! They think they know everything at that age."

"I'm assuming you're speaking from personal experience," Cuddy muttered, purposely loud enough for House to hear.

House glanced at her, a cheeky smile on his face. He waggled a finger at her. "Oh, I'm not falling for that, Miss Lisa Cuddy. You're gonna have to try baiting me some other way."

Cuddy stopped walking and just shook her head. "Take the case, House. If it's boring, you can get out of here quick and do some clinic duty. You still owe me hours."

House looked back at her and put his hand up to his ear. "What? Couldn't quite hear you there. Looks like this case is interesting after all. May be all day on it. Maybe all night. Looks like you're sleeping alone again, honey!"

Cuddy sighed and shook her head again. Oh, well. At least he'd taken the red herring. Now, he would put his energy into this case, if for no other reason than to avoid clinic duty.


	2. House, Episode 2, Part 2

So this time, there's a original character mentioned. Yay for original character! And anyone who points out who the three doctors are that I highlight gets a cookie!

(Well, unfortunately, not really. Wouldn't that be cool, though? Passing real, fresh baked cookies through the computer? Course, it would get kind of sticky…)

* * *

House: Hmm… Not too bad, not too bad. I think I'll move your number up from 100. 

Me: Yay!

House: To 99 and a half.

Me: Jackass…

House: What, no blood this time?

Me: Not unless I'm making yours run!

House: Just get to telling the story. I can't wait to deride how wrong you are at the end of the season.

Me: Just see how cocky you are when I steal your cane.

House: Hey, whoa, do you have any idea how much older than you I am? Quit with the 'cock'-y talk.

Me::Sighs in exasperation and decides to stop talking::

Thanks for the reviews guys! I'm glad I've been in character with House and Cuddy. I hope I can continue it. I just want to let you know, the medical stuff that I put in here will be as accurate as I can manage. I'm going to try not to take any liberties with what actually happens to a person, so it's gonna be realistic as possible. Therefore, the solutions and such will be fairly simple and have hardly any of the sense of urgency that the show actually does. I am, however, actually looking up medical maladies online and getting the symptoms and stuff. So, bear with me and let me know what you think of the medical things I come up with.

* * *

House went into his office and looked at the table where Cameron, Chase, and Foreman normally would have been. Funny how over two months later, he still expected them to be waiting for him… 

He shook his head to rid himself of those thoughts and looked again at the file. A sore ankle and painful knuckles. This was what the career of the renowned Gregory House had come down to. If he didn't know better, he'd have said this was a file for an eighty-four year old, diagnosed her with arthritis, and been done with it.

Oh, well. He shrugged as he hung his cane on the whiteboard and began writing symptoms. Time to call in the troupes for their first little test.

"All right. There are exactly sixty of you here. Divide yourselves into three groups of twenty and then take a number from one of these three piles. The red group, stand on the right side, the yellow in the middle, and the blue on the left." After the group had done that, taking much too long for House's liking, he continued. "I've made copies of our case for each group to look at. Pore over it. Diagnose what you think is wrong with the girl and then pick a spokesman to come forward and tell me what you think. Whoever has the most intelligent guess represents the group who will help me today. The other forty of you losers can go home until the next one pops up." He looked at his watch. "You have ten minutes. Starting now."

"House," Wilson said, coming into the room four minutes and thirty-seven seconds in. "Cuddy needs you."

"Why didn't she come and tell me herself?"

"Because she's with your patient. You know, where you should be."

"I," House began importantly, "am teaching these youngsters to appreciate the fine art of diagnosing before ever meeting a patient. Tell Cuddy I'm here. If it's important, she'll come to me."

Sure enough, fifteen minutes and three diagnoses House was disgusted with later, Cuddy came in.

"You owe me an extra hour of clinic duty," was the first thing she said to him.

"What did I do, Mommy?" House whined mockingly.

"Instead of taking two minutes to walk down and see what I needed to tell you, you avoided it and made me come to you, leaving a patient whose fever is spiking!"

"All right, all right. Don't get your panties in a bunch. That is, of course, unless they're in a bunch of my hand." Eyebrows moved suggestively.

Cuddy rolled her eyes. "Just solve the damn case. I'm going back to talk to the family."

After she left, House turned to the wanna-be assistants of his. "All right. Those suggestions for this kid were pathetic. Come up with something better in the next ten minutes, or you're all going home." He limped over to his whiteboard and added 'fever' in his familiar lettering.

Fifteen minutes later, a young Arab guy, a blond guy with friendly green eyes, and an attractive auburn haired woman stood in front of him.

"Okay, red team, what have you got?"

The blond guy stepped forward and gave his groups' thoughts. House scoffed and sent him back to his group, proverbial tail between his legs. The same thing happened with the Arab guy. The woman, however . . .

"Chicken pox? That's so absurd I'm actually willing to listen to why you arrived at it before I fire you."

She didn't flinch. "The girl has a high fever, and I went to see her. She has several splotchy, rash-like areas on her body, which could indicate the red marks of chicken pox."

"Okay, except for the fact that 90 percent of the population in this country has had chicken pox by the time they're ten. This girl's missing the mark by four years."

She nodded. "That'd be very true, if she'd had chicken pox when she was a child." Shoving the girl's medical history under House's nose, the woman continued, "This girl never contracted chicken pox. Seemed she was home schooled until third grade, when most kids have gotten, and gotten over, chicken pox."

House glanced at her, with something that, on another person's face, might have been taken as admiration. Of course, this was House. "So test your theory. Find out if you're right."

She nodded again and turned away. "Hey," House said.

She turned back. "Yes?"

"What's your name?"

"Angela. Angela Cornall."

"I'll remember that."

House caned up behind Wilson in the cafeteria, tapped him on the left shoulder, and as Wilson turned to look at who he expected to be there, House reached over his other shoulder and stole Wilson's peach.

Sighing in exasperation and rolling his eyes when he realized he'd been duped, Wilson said, "You know, you could just go up to the counter and buy a peach like every other person in this hospital does."

"Not as much fun," House said, then took a big bite.

"What do you want, House?"

"What kind of kid grows up, never having chicken pox?"

"What?"

"My case. The kid never had chicken pox. You ever know anyone who didn't have it when they were a kid?"

"Well, I was friendly with one girl who contracted shingles back in--"

"Oh, spare me your romantic history!" House chided loudly. "All right, so one person with shingles. And what's with the home schooling angle, anyway? Too many parents think they're better than America's teachers nowadays."

"You know, it is possible to get just as fine an education--"

"Oh, gotta go. Cuddy's coming, and she might try to trick me into clinic duty," House interrupted, standing and scooting off.

Wilson sighed, shaking his head. He should be used to this by now. House using him as a soundboard and then rushing off because he didn't want to hear what Wilson had to say.

"Wilson, House just ran off, didn't he?" Cuddy said from behind him.

He turned around and gestured for her to join him. "Well, I wouldn't exactly say 'ran,' but yes, he was avoiding you."

Cuddy sighed. "He's so obsessed with getting out of clinic duty he thinks that's the only reason I'd approach him. His patient was negative for chicken pox and shingles. He, or his posse, or whoever, was wrong."

Wilson furrowed his eyebrows. "Want me to find him?"

"No. We can't be chasing him all over the hospital. He's got those twenty people working under him right now, so let one of them find him and tell him. We can't keep enabling him. I've got more important things to do around here than humoring him and keeping him informed of his patient's progress. Or lack thereof."

Wilson nodded.

"Negative for chicken pox and shingles, huh?" House looked at the tests. "What else you got?"

As Angela and the nineteen others suggested, argued, threw out, and reformed ideas, House felt himself slipping back in time. He recalled Foreman staring at the coffee bag, not knowing how to open it after the brain surgery to figure out what was making him so sick. He remembered Cameron coming in with a letter of recommendation when she believed he was dying of brain cancer, and moving forward slowly, never taking her eyes off his, until their lips met. But the memory was spoiled by the knowledge that the kiss had been nothing more than a ruse, a botched attempt to get his blood to test him for the cancer he'd never had. He remembered Chase coming into the room, telling House, Foreman, and Cameron that one of their mother-patients would never be okay; her baby had just died.

"Dr. House?" Angela said, nudging his shoulder.

He shook his head. "What? Sorry, your mundane ideas and mumblings must have put me to sleep."

She gave him a look that clearly said she didn't believe him, but said, "Well, we have another idea. We want to test her for herpes and other STD's that will cause rashes."

"Fine, go ahead, good luck. Get out of here. All of you."

Nineteen potential employees got up and left. Angela lingered at the door, appearing to want to say something, but when House gave her a sharp glare, she looked away, silently stepping out in the hall, the glass door closing behind her.

House let his head loll forward, looking at the carpet between his feet. He mindlessly tapped his cane on the floor, constructing a whiteboard in his imagination and mentally writing 'House' on it. Then, underneath he imagined -- 'Loneliness,' 'regret,' 'loss.'

"Well, only one thing can cure those symptoms," he muttered to himself. "To forget about it. Because what have I got to regret? They left, except for Chase, of their own choice. Foreman couldn't deal with being like me; Cameron didn't want to be the only one left. It was their choice to leave. I've got nothing to regret."

He popped a couple vicodin in his mouth and threw his head back, swallowing. That would take care of his physical pain.

House stood and walked out of the room after scrawling a note. "_I'll be back. Need to get something at my place. Tell Cuddy not to bother calling to yell."_


	3. House, Episode 2, Part 3

Hey, everyone! I'm not getting many reviews, people!!! I'm not gonna give out cookies…

Lol, anyway. I seriously do like getting reviews, it lets me know people are reading and actually want to hear what I have to say. Plus, knowing that people are curious is good for my self-esteem and keeps me writing. :)

Oh, how cool is this? I saw it on someone else's fanfic biography thing, Hugh Laurie has written a novel! It's called the Gun Seller, and I went and bought it tonight from Barnes and Noble. I like it so far. Though I'm only about seven pages in. :)

The three characters that I highlighted that came up to House with the medical suggestions in the last chapter were supposed to represent Foreman, (the Arab guy,) Chase, (the blond green-eyed guy,) and Cameron, (Angela Cornall. Same initials, get it?)

Anyway, here's part three, where I'm going to finish off the episode. Sorry if the medical case is a little weak. I'm trying, but I just don't know that much about sicknesses and symptoms and all that. In the next "episode" though, I have a great idea for a funny bit for House to deal with in the clinic.

* * *

It was after midnight when House finally made it back to the hospital. He felt awful and he knew, with what he'd done, he couldn't take any more vicodin for at least six hours. But his leg was hurting _now._

Sighing, he paced up and down the hallway outside of his office, since it gave him minimal relief from leg pain, glancing in once to see that Angela Cornall was the only one still in there, bent over what was undoubtedly the teen's medical file.

House entered the room. "What are you still doing here? Or rather, why aren't the rest of the group here?"

"Cuddy sent them home," she responded. "She said since you weren't here there was no reason for the rest of us to stay."

"So then why did you?"

"I want to know what's wrong with her. Her fever is completely gone, but she's complaining of stiffness and pain in her knees, hips, and elbows. I'm still waiting on the results for the STD's test."

House appraised her thoughtfully. She was thorough. She cared about the results, yet kept something of an emotional detachment to her cases. Maybe she--

'_No,'_ House thought automatically. '_No decisions yet. And when I do make one, I'm using my _head. _And that's final.'_

"Well, let me know when you get results." House sat down at his desk and rested his head, which was starting to hurt, on his arm. He groaned slightly.

"Are you all right?" Angela asked softly.

He lifted his head slightly and gave her an annoyed look. "Whatever would make you ask that?" he muttered sarcastically.

"If you'll allow me to be blunt--"

"No thanks, I don't smoke those."

"--you look hung over."

House gave a mocking laugh, but stopped quickly because it made his head pound more. "Hung over. I didn't leave long enough to be hung over."

Angela's eyes widened. She backed away and quickly left the room. House, in a clearer frame of mind, probably would have wondered about it. But right now, he just didn't care.

* * *

_House was walking, actually walking, with no use of his cane, towards the cool, clear water of the inground pool. He climbed up the ladder and walked out on the diving board, hearing people chant his name._

"_House!"_

"_House!"_

"_House!"_

_He jumped from the diving board, and felt the cool water hit his face with force._

"House! Wake up, House!" Cuddy called, an empty glass, still dripping from the rim, in her hand.

House coughed, and brought his hand up to wipe his cheek and get the water out of his ear. Blearily, he looked at Cuddy and realized what had actually happened when he hit the pool water in his dream.

"You saucy wench," he said, attempting to be flighty, "if you wanted a wet T-shirt contest, why didn't you just say so?"

Cuddy had leaned in close to House's face as he spoke, then leaned back, disgusted. "House, you've done a lot of low things throughout your history in this hospital. You've endangered patients' lives in the name of saving them, you've manipulated, you've made bets on the outcome of tests just so you can prove that you were right, and you've made a fool of me countless times. And I've dealt with it. But now you're leaving the hospital so you can go… wherever and drink! House," she leaned back down to him and grabbed the front of his shirt, close to his neck, "I've dealt with a lot of crap from you. But if you ever, _ever_ come into work after drinking again, I will not only fire you, but I'll make sure you never work in this state again!"

With that, she let him go, shook her head, and left the room, ignoring his shocked expression.

* * *

Angela walked into the girl's room. "Hello? Mind a visitor?"

"Not like I have a choice. Doctors and nurses just come in whenever they want."

"Well, I want to actually talk to you, not just check your vitals." She sat down on the edge of the bed. "So, it says your name is Amber. That's a nice name."

"Yeah, it's okay. Does anybody know what's wrong with me?"

Angela sighed. "Not yet. That's why I wanted to ask you some questions. You play tennis, right?"

"Yeah, but I haven't lately. Once my ankle started hurting, I stopped playing as hard, and when it got worse, I stopped playing altogether. I don't want to do something stupid and screw up my chances of playing professionally."

Angela nodded. "I don't blame you. You must have a lot of ambition, then."

"Yeah, I guess. I just know what I want and how I'm gonna get there. But this hospital stay wasn't part of the plan."

"Things like this never are," Angela said, an idea forming in her mind. "You know, I think I know what this might be. I saw it in medical school. I'll be back soon, I need to see what else was ruled out, all right?"

Amber looked hopeful for the first time in days. "Hurry."

* * *

"Juvenile Rheumatoid Arthritis?" House slurred. He was still sitting at his desk. "That's what she has?"

"Yep. I've seen it before, when I was in medical school. Because of the spiking and disappearing fever, we suspect Systemic JRA, but it's still being confirmed which type she has," Angela told him. "It explains the rash she had, the knuckle pain, the ankle, and of course, her fever."

House stared at the woman through blurry vision. Maybe drinking wasn't the best way to forget things. He was no lightweight; he could hold a good amount of liquor. But he'd obviously gone overboard, because the only thing tonight had accomplished was making his stomach forget how to digest food, so he'd spent a good fifteen minutes calling Ralph on the big white phone.

"Dr. House, perhaps it's none of my business, but--"

"Then follow that instinct and don't comment," House interrupted.

Angela pursed her lips, took a deep breath, and continued anyway. "But, though I've only worked for you not even twenty-four hours, I'm concerned for you. When I expressed this to Cuddy, she told me you'd been drinking earlier and told me a bit about your last colleagues and how they left. If you--"

"I don't need your help on things I can't change!" he yelled, standing up to intimidate her further, despite the pain it caused his cranium. But he stood up with his weight equally on both legs and his right buckled. He overbalanced and began falling forward when Angela gripped his arm with both of her hands, using the left side of her body to brace him so he stayed upright.

House exhaled slowly, his head pounding, blood rushing in his ears. He watched as Angela reached over and gripped the head of his cane and handed it to him. He grasped it and gave a gruff, "thank you."

She let him go when he leaned back from her to sit down again. "You're ... welcome." Then she was back to complete professionalism. "I'm sorry if I overstepped my bounds. As I said, I'm just concerned for you."

And before House could open his mouth to tell her not to bother with concern for him, she walked briskly out of the room.

* * *

Angela walked out of the hospital, thankful she had been the one to realize what was plaguing poor Amber. And the fact that she played tennis would actually help her; exercise was a key part to controlling JRA.

As she got her keys out to unlock the door, she happened to look up at what she already recognized as House's office. She sighed. Everything that she'd heard about House said that he didn't care about anyone, anytime, anywhere. But he'd been distracted during the entire case, letting the ones who weren't much more than med students solve it. Somehow, she knew that he'd been thinking of his old team, and quite possibly how much more competent they had been.

That didn't sound like someone who didn't care about anyone. Not at all.

* * *

House sat back in his chair, feeling with his other hand where Angela had held onto him. Anyone else, except possibly Wilson, would have just let him fall. But she'd caught him. She cared if he fell. He remembered someone else who would have cared as well.

_"You kissed back..."_

He turned, almost stumbling, and would have sworn he saw Cameron walking past his office. He rushed to the door and looked both ways down the hall, but no one was there.

Shaking his head, he pushed the door to his office open and was about to step in.

"_You're right. I _don't _like you."_

House furrowed his eyebrows. He hadn't been shot; why was he having auditory hallucinations? Had he drunk _that_ much?

Limping back over to his chair, he sat down, leaned back, and forced himself not to feel. Times like this, he was glad he had a constant leg pain. It let him focus on the physical aspect of pain, instead of the emotional. Emotional was always worse, and he was already crippled physically. He couldn't afford to be crippled emotionally. He wouldn't let himself. He just wouldn't.

After all, he had a reputation to uphold: _I don't care._


	4. House, Episode 3, Part One

Episode Three

Man, this episode tonight was good!

I seriously thought he was having hallucinations when he saw the three of them.

I thought it was great when Chase started talking in the room above

where House was operating, and House goes,

"You see that guy up there with the peach fuzz?"

(Okay, so I initially wrote this Tuesday night and am not posting it till Friday. Oh, well.)

Okay, so. This episode has given me some really good ideas. I can't wait to write them. So, here we go, Season four, episode three, my way!

* * *

"_I don't care,"_ was his mantra. It was something he lived by. When you didn't care, your heart didn't break, you weren't in emotional pain, your head was in control of everything. And that was exactly how he liked it. His head being in complete control. 

House reached up and opened the cabinet above his sink and pulled down a bottle of scotch. He opened it, downed several gulps, closed it, and returned it to the shelf. Of course, Cuddy would kill him if she knew, but he intended to use all of his 'avoid Cuddy' tactics that day. If given the choice, he would have avoided work; he didn't have time for medical puzzles. He wanted to solve the one in his own head.

Had he actually seen and heard Cameron and Foreman? He could explain the auditory hallucinations away as just extremely poignant memories that struck him. But thinking that he saw Cameron walk past his office?

He sighed, looking at his hands gripping the edge of the sink. Then he reached for the scotch again.

* * *

"Where the Hell is House?" Cuddy yelled as she left the elevator. The first person she saw was Wilson. "Wilson! Have you heard from House?"

"Not since he stole my peach in the cafeteria a few days ago. Why? Is something wrong?"

Cuddy looked left and right, then leaned in closer to Wilson. "He was drinking. He was out of it enough that I had to splash him with water before he was coherent enough to understand me."

Wilson's eyes widened. "House, drinking on the job? I know he'll kick back with a few at times, but…"

"I know. Wilson, I don't know what to do. I threatened to fire him and that I would make sure he never worked in this state again if he came in in that condition a second time. But I wonder if he cares."

Wilson's eyebrows furrowed. "Oh, he cares, Cuddy. He cares too much and is too pigheaded to ever admit it."

"You're talking about Cameron, Chase, and Foreman."

"Who else? Why do you think he's set up this elaborate scheme of hiring new colleagues? He's trying to take his mind off what he should be trying to fix. Of course, he won't see it that way."

"No, he never does. He'll insist he's fine until he, or someone else, is blue in the face."

"I can't promise anything'll come of it, but if it will make you feel better, I'll try talking to him."

Cuddy smiled. "Thank you, Wilson." She touched his arm for a moment and then walked on.

Wilson stared after her briefly, then sighed, shaking his head. House barely listened to him when Wilson wasn't trying to lecture him. What could make him think House would give his words any credence now?

* * *

House limped into his office, barely able to maintain his balance. Some part of him told him he was coming apart at the seams and needed help, but the stubborn part of him kept insisting he could get through this. He'd be fine. He just had to convince himself that he didn't care. Simple.

He finally pulled the blinds closed, after missing the cord four times, and sat down at his desk. He popped a couple vicodin in his mouth and threw his head back, swallowing them. When he brought his head forward again, he noticed the room was spinning. But he also noticed something else. Cameron was once again walking by his office… with blonde hair? Since when did she become a blonde?

House attempted to pull himself to a standing position to go see if it really was her, but his legs didn't want to cooperate, so he gave up and remained in his chair. Glancing at his watch, he saw he'd only been there fifteen minutes. Damn. Another endless day ahead of him and he couldn't even stand upright. Avoiding Cuddy was gonna be harder than he thought. Maybe drinking excessively wasn't such a good idea…

* * *

Angela walked toward the hospital and saw the red group standing by the door. She approached them guardedly.

"Well, if it isn't our new celebrity," a blonde woman sneered at her. She had a red number six pinned to her doctor's coat.

"Someone had to solve the case," Angela answered coolly. "And I didn't see you sticking around to do it."

"That's because I figured out what her diagnosis was long before you did. But I could tell that Dr. House wasn't giving his full attention to us, so why should I shine then? But I'll tell you this: one of those positions is mine. So don't even think about trying to beat me out. I'll blow you out of the water."

Angela was amazed that someone could be so cutthroat about a job, even one serving under someone as well-renowned as Gregory House. Not to mention, if she'd truly solved the case so long before everyone else, why hadn't she spoken up? Shaking her head slightly, she didn't bother to answer; she just walked into the hospital to prepare for House's present test.

* * *

"Clinic duty, House!" Cuddy called from the office door. "You're not getting out of it today, so you might as well get it over with. There aren't any 'interesting' cases that have come in yet."

House woke with a startled snort. Clinic duty? Damn. "Aww, Mommy, do I hafta go?" he whined mockingly, giving her bloodshot puppy dog eyes.

"Yes. And you--" she stopped, catching a look at his eyes. "House, please tell me you didn't sleep well last night."

"Of course I did. Why wouldn't I?" House answered sarcastically, quickly looking away from her. He grabbed his cane and hoped against hope that he could stand when he attempted to get up this time.

"I'm serious, House. I need you on board here. If you're not fully with us--"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Save me your worries, I've got clinic duty."

There was only one reason House hated clinic duty. Not because the place was always busy. Not because the cases were boring. Not because he was forced here for so many hours per week. No. All those were part of the grand reason, but it wasn't the Grand Reason. It was simply because the people who came in were so _**stupid!**_

After the people he had to deal with that day, he wished he hadn't brought a strong cup of coffee with him. He'd rather have stayed in a slightly drunken stupor, instead of having a caffiene-induced awareness. Damn Cuddy.

His first patient, for example, in exam room three:

"Oh, doctor, thank God you came in. I really need your help right now."

"Yeah, well, what seems to be the problem?" House asked, giving a once-over to this especially well-groomed man. His hair was parted exactly in the center, he had both his hands equal distance away from his body, his feet were both pointing to the floor at the exact same angle…

"Well, I have OCD and lately my symptoms are becoming worse. Everything in my life has to be equal. If I raise one hand, I have to raise this one." He indicated by raising his left arm just above his head, then raising his right arm to the same height. "It's taking over my life again and I don't know how to stop it!"

House seemed to be counting something even after the man stopped talking. Just as he was going to open his mouth and ask what this supposed doctor was doing, House said, "Do you realize that everything you said contains equal syllables? Those first two sentences both contained eight. Then it was seventeen, eleven, eleven, seventeen."

"You see what I'm referring to with this? I need help and I can't stop on my own!"

"You did it again. That time it was ten syllables." Despite the man's whiny demeanor, House was starting to enjoy himself. But then he noticed that the guy looked like he was gonna blow a gasket, so he got down to business. "Okay, can you just nod yes or no to my questions?"

He nodded yes, going left once, right once, left once, right once.

"Okay. Do you take medication for this?"

A head bob, first to one side, then the other, and repeat.

House furrowed his eyebrows, then realized what that must mean. "You _used_ to take medication for this?"

That annoying nod to signal yes.

This question couldn't be done with yes's and no's. "What stopped you?"

"The doctor I was seeing sent me to a new pharmacy. Better prices, you know, and the place gave me my pills. They were wrong, though. I can't take them. I just can't cuz it's not the right thing for me to do. I need 50 milligram tabs and they gave me a hundred."

"You're supposed to take two fifty milligrams at once," House said, figuring it out, "but when they changed it to one 100 milligram tablet, you stopped taking it because it wasn't equal. Just nod."

An affirmative nod.

"All right," House said, taking out a prescription pad. "I'll write you a prescription so they give you those 50 milligram pills, but you have to actually take them for it to work. Put simply," he raised his voice, "_stop obsessing!"_

The man looked like he wanted to say something, but didn't. He also didn't reach for the prescription paper when House hold it out to him.

"Oh, for the love of-- Fine, I'm also gonna write out the name and number of a good behavioral therapist. See if he can't squeeze some sense into that completely equalized brain of yours. Which, ironically enough, isn't equal at all, since Obsessive Compulsive Disorder is caused by a chemical _im_balance."

House left the room, leaving the guy looking like his head would explode.

"House," Wilson said, catching up to him after he escaped the clinic. "I wanted to talk to you. Got a minute?"

"Not if this is gonna be some friendly chat about my habits in the past few days."

"House, I--"

Suddenly, House got dizzy. He stumbled and his shoulder hit the wall, hard. It looked like the caffiene-high was wearing off. Putting a hand to his forehead, he sunk to the ground and looked up at the second floor railing. Breathing out slowly, he tried to joke, "Whoa. Anyone else feel that earthquake just now?"

"This is what I'm talking about. House, something is up with you. I don't know what it is, but--"

"Oh, bull patooties you don't!" House spat out, trying out the word he'd seen in a Ziggy comic that morning, before the burst of scotch. Patooty. Reminded him, simultaneously, of pancakes and a nice, well toned ass. Of the female variety. We weren't talking donkeys, here. "Cuddy must have told you about knowing that I came in after drinking a few days ago and now you're trying to pull the do-gooder card and meddle in my life because you need people to need you. Well, I don't need you and I don't want Cuddy using you to butt into my life!"

Wilson just sighed. "So, you wanna say that to me face to face, or can you even stand under your own power right now?"

House let out something akin to a growl and was about to look away when something caught his eye near the railing. No, not something. Some_one._ Chase was there.

"What the--" he began, confused. He struggled to his feet and looked again. Chase was gone. "Did you see…?" House looked at Wilson.

"See what? House," Wilson looked at the railing, "there's nobody there."


End file.
